Purpose?

The Artist

In the morning, near my son’s daycare an old man uses a pair of barbecue tongs to pick up bright yellow Ginkgo Tree leaves from the sidewalk. He places each leaf into a small brown paper bag. I watch his face crease with concentration as he bends at the waist to gingerly pluck each chosen leaf from the white concrete. He seems to be very determined, but why he does it, I can’t tell.

The Surfer

This is the second time I’ve visited Shimoda. The first time was during Golden Week several years ago. I visited my friend Keith at his house here and he took me surfing. It is almost New Year’s. I have a bad cold. We drive north following the rocky coastline to a small beach Keith tells me is a secret local surf spot. Today we will only watch the waves today, not ride them. Far out on the horizon a cargo ship slowly makes its way north towards the ports of Yokohama. The empty parking lot near a small white beach is barren. Spring and summer will flood it with tourists, but on this winter day me and Keith have it to ourselves. Sitting on an old weather beaten log Keith points out the surf break to me. He is nearly as ragged as the log we sit on, a stark contrast to his normal lean athletic self. In the winter when the storms blow in the waves are sometimes four meters high, he tells me. Then he asks me a question. “Hypothetically speaking, if you wanted to kill yourself how would you do it?” I don’t know where it comes from, but an answer rushes into my brain and spills out of my mouth, “Hemlock Society,” I say. “Hemlock Society?” “Uh, yeah, when Socrates was killed they gave him a poison to drink made from Hemlock. That’s where the name comes from, but they help people who have terminal illnesses die with dignity, legally whenever possible. Normally a friend asking me about suicide would worry me, but Keith has terminal lung cancer and I assume he is just considering his options.

The Dedicated Monk

I’ve been watching a Werner Herzog documentary called “The Wheel of Time”. It is about a Tibetan Buddhist ceremony that is held every two years and is presided over by the Dalai Lama. In the documentary the ceremony is being held in Bodh Gaya in Nepal. Hundreds of thousands of Buddhist from all over the world are attending. Werner Herzog interviews a monk who has traveled from the Ando region in Tibet. The monk says he did traditional prostration the entire distance, placing his hands over his head, in front of his brow, his heart, and then laying on the ground and stretching his body out. It was a journey of over 3000 miles and took more than three years to complete. His hands are permanently disfigured and his knees and face are scared. But, he says when he reached Bodh Gaya he felt a deep serenity fill his body and spirit. I wonder if it was worth it?

The Artist

Rain has turned all the yellow leaves on the sidewalk into an ugly brown mush. I don’t see the old man for several days. Then, a few days later on a warm afternoon I see him sitting on a faded blue bench in a nearby park. He has a sketch pad in his lap and he is gazing intently at a tall leafless tree. The same yellow leaves he was collecting litter the ground around the tree. Occasionally, he takes his eyes off the tree and sketches something rapidly onto the sketchpad. He seems to have an intense passion for his artwork.

The Surfer

I call Keith. He answers his cell phone, but his voice sounds tired and scared. He tells me he’s been having strong seizures recently. His doctor thinks the cancer has moved from his lungs to his brain. “But I’ve lived a year longer than they expected me too, so that’s good news,” he says laughing. I don’t know what to say to him, though I’m glad to hear him laugh. He is planning on going back to Australia soon to see his family. As he talks, I silently wonder if this is the last time he will ever see them.

The Dedicated Monk

I finish watching “The Wheel of Time.” On the first day the Dalai Lama announces that he is very sick and cancels the entire ceremony. Millions of people traveled to Bodh Gaya from all over the world to attend. I wonder how the monk feels. After enduring all the pain and suffering and having severely damaged his body, now all he can do is make the long trek back to the Ando region of Tibet. What would a sudden end to your greatest life’s ambition be like?

Artistically Surfing Life like a Monk

Me and Kai are at the park again today. I’m pushing Kai in the cold metal swing. The thick chain creaks and rattles. Kai is screaming happily for me to push him higher. I’m only half listening. I’m thinking about Keith. He died a week ago in Sydney. A blood vessel in his brain burst during the flight from Japan and he was dead three days. After a few minutes Kai wants to stop swinging. I stop the swing for him and help him climb out of the red plastic seat. He runs towards the see-saw. I think about the old artist. I haven’t seen him again either. And I think about Keith and the monk and wonder. Then Kai calls me over to the see-saw to play with him. I sit on the see-saw and we bounce up and down. And he laughs and laughs.